Chapter 9 – Memento Mori
There was no sound. No floor. No sky. And yet, there was everything.
Emryr stood in a place that defied description. Neither white nor black. Neither light nor dark. Only absence, humming softly with the breath of distant stars.
Nebulae spiraled around him like half-formed thoughts. Constellations drifted beyond any horizon. The laws of physics whispered here, not shouted.
The Intermède.
He didn't remember how he got here. But it didn't feel wrong.
This was the space between causes. Between effects. A corridor for forgotten truths.
He felt… still. Strangely weightless. The background hum of logic, the equations, the constant solving, the awareness of every variable, was gone. No calculations. No predictions.
Just him.
And then…
—"Sit," said a voice.
Warm. Familiar. Almost amused.
She was already there, sitting like she'd always been. Silver hair. Eyes blue like frost caught in starlight. Serene, but not distant.
Emryr blinked. Then walked toward her. No footsteps, no resistance. Just motion.
—"Finally," he said, settling beside her. "Someone who isn't yelling or swinging something at me."
—"Is that common?" she asked with a knowing smile.
—"More than I'd like." He sighed. "You're almost hospitable."
—"Almost?"
—"I've met demons more welcoming than most of Albion."
She laughed softly. Not because it was funny, but because it sounded exactly like him.
There was quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just... full.
Emryr let out a slow breath. He usually hated people. He could handle them, even charm them. But they exhausted him. Every word was a mask. Every gesture, performance.
But not here. Not with her.
He glanced sideways.
—"You feel familiar," he said. "I saw you at the ceremony. But it's more than that."
She looked away.
—"You noticed me. That's something."
There was something in her voice. A current beneath the surface.
—"I can't quite remember," he admitted. "But it's... close. Like hearing a song in the wrong key."
She nodded slowly.
—"Some songs don't forget you, even when you forget them."
He smiled faintly at that. Then frowned.
—"Let's just talk," she said. "Like we used to."
—"Did we?"
—"Often."
He didn't push. He didn't know why, but he didn't want to break the moment.
—"I don't remember this place," he said, gazing upward.
—"You weren't supposed to. But here you are." she said gently.
—"Comforting, your voice helps breaking the silence…" he murmured, looking to the stars.
She gave a soft chuckle.
—"You said that last time too."
—"Did I?"
—"Mhm."
He turned to her.
—"You talk like we had something."
—"We did. Still do. But that's the part we don't talk about." she said.
A silence stretched between them. Not awkward. Just heavy.
—"You're...?" he began.
She tilted her head.
—"I walked with endings. I was the breath after the last word. The hush after the final note."
He studied her.
—"Death."
—"Among other things."
—"You don't look like death."
—"You asked me not to."
He froze.
—"Did I?"
Her eyes held him for a moment.
—"You always hated quiet places," she said. "Said they made your thoughts too loud."
—"Still do. But I usually don't say that to... no one," he muttered.
—"You used to say the silence was a constant reminder of your 'terrible personality.'"
Her smile was soft. Fragile. Like she didn't want to drop it.
—"Do you remember saying that?"
He shook his head.
—"No. But it sounds true. Something I would say. I am insufferable, after all."
She looked at him a little longer, then looked away.
—"I remember."
There was no bitterness in it. Just weight.
He didn't ask anything else. The silence between them felt earned.
—"Do you fear eternity?" he asked eventually.
She considered the question.
—"No. Because someone once promised they'd meet me at the end."
A pause.
—"We'd finish each other. Quietly. Together."
Her voice lowered.
—"But he made other choices."
He didn't reply.
—"He forgot," she said, almost to herself. "To protect something greater. To hide what couldn't be allowed to exist."
Emryr stared forward.
—"Did I hurt you?"
She looked down.
—"Maybe. You will eventually remember…"
His breath caught, and for a moment, something in him almost surfaced. A shape. A memory. Then it slipped away.
She rose.
—"There's a conflict coming."
He stood beside her.
—"I've seen hints."
—"Old pieces are moving. The ones you thought were buried."
He frowned.
—"And I'm part of it."
—"You're more than that."
—"I never asked to be."
She glanced at him.
—"You never needed to. You were always the piece that mattered most."
A long pause.
—"You once said every game ends the same way," she murmured. "With the board flipped. And the last player laughing alone."
—"Did I mean it?"
—"Yes. But you hated it."
A pulse rippled through the void. Distant. Like a tremor.
—"They've moved their first piece," she said.
—"Who?"
—"The ones who remember what the world chose to forget."
She stepped close, brushing his hand with her fingers.
—"If you fall... the board goes with you."
He looked into her eyes.
—"Then let's not let that happen."
Her gaze held his.
Neither moved. Neither needed to.
And then..
Emryr gasped. Air filled his lungs too fast. Light struck his eyes like a blade.
He was back.
Same corridor. Same stone. Same taste of steel in the air.
But the silence had changed.
Footsteps. Running. Screams muffled by too much stone.
He moved.
Faster than thought.
Down two halls. Past the lecture wing. Past the courtyard statue with no name.
And then…
A crowd. Whispers. Blood.
The professor of modern magic.
Dead.
But this was no simple murder.
The body had not collapsed, it had been placed. Upright. Kneeling. Hands folded over his chest as if in prayer.
His eyes…
They weren't just open. They were empty. As if the soul had been excised with surgical precision.
His mouth was parted slightly. Not in shock. In ritual.
Across his forehead, a symbol was carved. Elegant. Ancient.
The symbol for Inertia.
The law he had spent his life teaching.
There were no defensive wounds. No arcane signature. No lingering energy. Only the faint scent of smoke and something older, like petrichor in a cave that hadn't seen sunlight in a thousand years.
The crowd didn't scream. They didn't even move.
They stared.
Because deep down, they knew:
This was not the act of a man.
It was the mark of a god that had not forgotten how to hunt.
Emryr stared. The world tilted slightly to the left. Then realigned.
He didn't speak.
Didn't need to.
Above the rooftops, perched on the academy's southern spire, a gray-feathered raven watched.
Its eyes were fixed on him. Still. Measuring.
Emryr met its gaze this time.
It did not blink.
Neither did he.
And then he turned.
And walked.
Not to flee.
Not to warn.
But to act.
The king had moved.